


the look in your eyes (this dancing juice)

by MelikaElena



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Delinquent Bonding, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hot Boys in Formal Wear, M/M, Minor Kabby, Modern AU, People are Alive and Happy, Pining, Smut, This fic has it all!, Wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 06:57:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6744085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelikaElena/pseuds/MelikaElena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Champagne is dangerous to Monty Green's health; a drunk, flirty Nathan Miller even more so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the look in your eyes (this dancing juice)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jennycaakes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jennycaakes/gifts).



> For Jenn, who requested Monty taking care of a drunk Miller. As per usual, a very simple prompt spiraled out of control.

Champagne is dangerous.

 

Monty figured this out at a disastrous Easter brunch a couple years ago, when he and Jasper found a place with unlimited mimosas. They drank for four hours, and to this day Monty doesn’t know how many they had—when the wait staff just puts carafe after carafe filled with the stuff right on your table, it’s impossible to keep track.

 

God punished them both, _soundly,_ for that transgression.

 

So, at Clarke’s mom’s wedding, Monty imbibes cautiously. He has the obligatory glass at the wedding toast, but generally sticks to the alcohol that he knows best: wine and beer. He’s even steering clear of the special cocktail that Abby and Marcus elected to have, because it has champagne in it.

 

Because Abby Griffin, now Abby Kane, is one Classy Lady, the champagne is _excellent_ , but nevertheless, Monty steers clear of it.

 

The same can’t be said, however, for the rest of his friends. They take advantage of the fact that said champagne doesn’t cost $10 a bottle like the other few times they’ve had it on special occasions, so they’re guzzling it like it’s no tomorrow. Even Clarke and Bellamy, the Dad and Mom of the group, are going to town, and it’s fun, in an endearing way, to see them acting as giggly and bubbly as the drink they’re consuming. It’s nice, to see them all so carefree.

 

They’re all in their mid-to-late 20s now, and Monty feels a sharp sense of pride and fondness come over him. They’ve all been through a lot over the years; they’re no longer the scrawny kids, rubbed raw with pain, sharpened due to life’s shitty hand, congregating at Clarke’s house like it was an oasis in a desert. Abby Griffin, though not the warmest person, nevertheless welcomed them with open arms, and was more at ease with them than she was with Clarke, most times (Monty knows it’s because Abby and Clarke, at their cores, are too similar in personality and yet too different in their world views.)

 

They’re adults now, for better or for worse—like a stone, they’ve been worn down into something polished and smooth; soothing at the touch, but with solid cores. He’s proud of them, all of them.

 

It’s this he’s thinking of, a sweet smile curving his lips upward, as he stands at the edge of the dance floor, watching them. Bellamy is twirling Clarke, both of their faces lit with joy; Lincoln and Octavia are holding each other close and swaying, completely oblivious to the upbeat rhythm; Jasper is attempting to do the sprinkler while Maya laughs at him; Wells dips Raven, who’s rolling her eyes but grinning; Emori is pulling a reluctant, but smirking, Murphy onto the dance floor; and Harper and Monroe have gotten them _all_ beat with some truly stellar dance moves straight out of a musical.

 

Monty frowns, because there’s someone missing, and he wonders, self-deprecatingly, how he didn’t realize it earlier. Monty’s developed something of a sixth sense where Nathan Miller is involved.

 

As if on cue, a sturdy, muscled arm is thrown around his shoulders. “Monty!” grins a clearly drunk Miller. “You’re not out there dancing?”

 

With Miller’s arm around him, Monty can smell his aftershave, along with the fabric of his suit, and that unmistakable Nathan Miller scent, and he has to remember to answer him in a timely fashion. “Nah,” he says, trying not to hold himself too stiffly. “Don’t uh… don’t have a partner.”

 

Miller’s grin grows wider. “Is that all?” He says. “Well, luckily I’m here.”

 

Monty flushes. He didn’t mean for that to be a hint; he’s very careful about what he says where Miller is concerned. After all, it wouldn’t do for Miller to know just how crazy in love with him Monty is. “We don’t have to,” Monty says hesitantly. “Honestly, it was a joke. I’m fine right where I am.”

 

Miller’s already puling him to the dance floor, and he stops, looks back at Monty. His head cocks a little like he’s a confused, cute puppy. “But what if I want to?” He asks. “I want to dance with you.”

 

Monty wills himself not to flush. _Miller is clearly drunk off his ass_ , he tells himself sternly. _This isn’t really him._ “Then… we’ll dance.”

 

Miller beams. “Great!” He says, and his hand slides down from where it’s wrapped around Monty’s wrist to his hand, twining their fingers together.

 

Monty gulps. He’s in big trouble.

 

* * *

 

Monty’s been in love with Nathan Miller for about as long as he’s known him, which puts it around ten years now, since high school, ever since they were in the same AP Biology and AP Literature block as sophomores, and both realized that they could help each other out to ensure that they both passed. It resulted in a lot of late-night study sessions, library lunch meet-ups, and rapidly transitioned into just hanging out. Monty didn’t have many friends besides Jasper and Harper, and it was exciting to make a new friend as quickly and easily as he did with Miller.

 

Unfortunately, by the time Monty had realized how head-over-heels he was for Miller, he learned that he was also in a committed relationship with a guy named Bryan.

 

It was, to sixteen-year-old Monty, devastating, and that’s not to say it got easier in time (nope, still sucked!), but it was soon just another part of Monty’s Normal: Pining Away for Nathan Miller. Monty did his best to make sure no one, except Jasper, was aware of his pining, and focused on just being a good friend to Miller.

 

That’s not to say that Monty didn’t have boyfriends and girlfriends of his own, because he did. If he was being honest with himself, he never fully fell out of love with Miller, but he tried not to let that affect the romantic relationships he was committed to, with people who actually loved him back. If none of them ever worked out, it was because of reasons completely unrelated to Miller.

 

For the first time since they’ve known each other, currently both Monty and Miller are single: Miller and Bryan had an awful break-up nearly two years before, when Bryan got his dream job across the country and wanted Miller to move with him. Miller, who was in grad school to become an English professor, had ultimately refused, wanting to do long distance instead until he graduated. Bryan didn’t want to, gave Miller an ultimatum, and when Miller, heartbroken, chose grad school, Bryan broke up with him.

 

At the time, Monty was seeing someone as well, but it fizzled shortly after—he spent a lot of free time with his friends, who were rallied by Bellamy into Looking After Miller, which was something Monty took very seriously, in love with the guy or not (okay, maybe _one_ of his relationships ended because of Miller.)

 

In the time since, Miller’s thrown himself into his studies to the point where he graduated a year early. He's completely sworn off dating, and Monty understands—a break-up is like a death, in a way: there’s a grieving process, and it takes a while. Monty tries not to worry about him, but he failed, miserably: he's worried that Miller works too hard, and his own stubborn stoicism means he refuses to ask for help; refuses to let anyone take care of him; refuses to admit that perhaps his solitary life is lonely.

 

Recently, Miller’s come back to the group, come back to himself. He’s lighter than he’s been in a long time, and he and Monty have grown especially close in the last six months, especially. They’re both single, a minority in their group of friends, and so they hang out more. It’s nice, and Monty is—content.  Loving Nathan Miller is his Normal, and he’s long given up Miller ever loving him back, single or not. They’re friends, and Monty’s glad of it, if perhaps a little wistful. But he doesn’t dwell on it: all he wants is for Miller to be happy.

 

So seeing him here at the wedding, as drunk and giddy as the rest of them, makes Monty grin wider than he has all night, and so he allows himself to be dragged onto the dance floor, throwing his hands up in the air with the rest of them.

 

* * *

 

Monty’s friends are all wildly different drunks: Jasper thinks everything is funny, while Maya has the best poker face he’s ever seen; Octavia is incredibly impulsive, going online and looking at animal shelters and Amazon, buying everything in sight; Lincoln sings incessantly, while Murphy just falls asleep; Raven cries at the drop of a hat about _everything_ ; Bellamy becomes a Philosopher, talking about the meaning of life and imagining what the world would be like if people had marks on their bodies that could lead them to their soulmates; Clarke goes on social justice rants and gets into fights-- luckily for her that her best friend is Wells, who becomes a scary, overprotective Mama Bear. And Miller? Miller is a Flirt.

 

It’s not so much that Miller is a horn dog when he’s drunk; on the contrary, he’s all easy smiles and casual affection. He likes long hugs and nuzzling into the crooks of necks; sloppy kisses on the cheeks, dangerously close to the mouth; he likes snuggling and tangling up legs and ankles on couches and under blankets; he likes running those perfect hands and long, long fingers up and down someone’s spine, across their arms and collarbones, brushing their hair out of their eyes, likes feeling someone else is there, likes feeling he’s not alone.

 

Monty would find it endearing, except it drives him out of his mind with want and longing and _need_. It’s a glimpse of what a real romantic relationship with Miller would be like all of the time, instead of spilled over affection only when intoxicated. Monty’s heart always hurts when Miller’s like this, but usually there was Bryan for Miller to go to. Since their break-up, Miller would just latch onto whomever he was closest to, which made sense, but as the months went by and people started to pair up, Miller started to, no matter what, seek out one person to unleash his pent-up affection upon: Monty.

 

And, especially since Monty’s been single, those few times when Miller’s gotten drunk, the touches have gotten more intense: whispers in Monty’s ear, stubble grazing his jaw; lingering touches on the tender insides of Monty’s wrists, the back of his neck, the side of his waist; and those sweet, sloppy kisses have a bit more _bite_ to them, as though Miller wants to devour him whole.

 

Tonight is one of those nights, and it’s even worse because Monty’s only barely tipsy. Usually he’s at least somewhat drunk, too, and for Monty being drunk is almost like being high. He’s a relaxed, chill drunk, able to calm people down when they’re being too much (which is, basically, all the time,) and the alcohol numbs, just enough, what Miller does to him. But he hadn’t drank that much all night, and what little high he does have is fading quickly.

 

That’s not to say he didn’t have a great time, far from it: the rest of the reception had been great, one of the best nights Monty remembers having in a long time, all of their friends dancing and holding onto each other, crying tears of joy as opposed to tears of sorrow. The shine and sparkle of the candles in the elegant ballroom gave way to the outdoor space, the gang piling close in a corner, laughing under the fairy lights strung up, giggling until, in pairs, they started to stumble to their rooms.

 

Monty had been tasked with taking care of Miller, who drank more champagne than everyone else (fucking champagne,) and they’re stumbling down the hall of the fancy hotel they’re all staying in for the wedding. One of Monty’s arms is around Miller’s waist, the other entwined with the hand of the arm Miller slung around his shoulders. Miller’s nuzzling into Monty’s neck shamelessly, and Monty knows if he keeps it up he’ll have razor burn in the morning.

 

Monty tries desperately not to flinch away every time Miller does it, but it’s difficult to keep his composure. He just-- he loves him _so much,_  and with all of the unintentional mixed signals Miller’s been giving him lately, his unrequited love has gone from merely pathetic to intolerable, unbearable.

 

Getting to Miller’s room, Monty murmurs, “Nate, where’s your key?”

 

Untangling himself from Monty, Miller starts to pat down his pockets. He shoots Monty a wicked grin. “Can’t find it. Search me?”

 

Monty looks away at that temptation, jaw working, and Miller stops, frowning. “Hey,” he says, raising a hand to Monty’s shoulder. “What’s up?”

 

Monty brushes off Miller’s hand. “Nothing,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s just… I’m tired. Do you have your key or not?”

 

Miller’s face is grave as he goes through his pockets, and finally digs out the card key, stumbling to the door and unlocking it. “You can go now,” he mutters to Monty, not looking at him. “I don’t need you here anymore.”

 

Monty sighs. His emotions are too raw, too unfiltered. After spending the rest of the night on the dance floor together, arms wrapped around each other and their friends, it was easy to forget that they were just that. Friends. Combined with Miller’s behavior, Monty feels like his heart is broken. “Nate--”

 

Miller finally looks at him, a defensive snarl of his lips that abruptly dies when he sees Monty’s face. “Monty,” he says, his hand reaching out and curving around Monty’s face. Feeling weak and overwhelmed and so tired all of the sudden, Monty closes his eyes and leans into it. “What’s wrong, baby?”

 

Monty flinches back, unable to hold back any longer. “This!” He explodes, taking a step back and gesturing at Miller’s confused, drunken self. “I can’t take this anymore, Nate! The touches, and the looks and-- and, your hands! Do you even know how _sexy_ your hands are? And when you’re drunk, you can’t control them! Or your lips, or your-- even your stupid _eyelashes_! I can _feel_ them, you know, whenever you rub your face against my neck. And when you look at me, is your tongue capable of staying in your mouth? Do you even know how much that turns me on?” Feeling embarrassed and flustered, Monty scrubs a hand over his face. “I know you don’t--” he huffs quietly. “I know it doesn’t mean anything to you, because you’re drunk and well, maybe you’re a little lonely, but acting like _this,_  calling me baby,” that’s a new one, a painful one, and Monty shakes his head. “It breaks my _heart_ , Nate.”

 

They stand looking at each other, Monty letting Miller see the pent-up years of love and adoration, of wistfulness and loneliness, of longing and desire. It’s not fair, Monty knows, to spring it on him this way, and part of him wishes it never would’ve happened, but he also feels… unburdened, somehow. Lighter. Like maybe he can finally move on after this.

 

… But not at the cost of Miller’s friendship. Monty steps closer, taking both of Miller’s hands in his. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I’m sorry to put this on you. We can ignore it, because being your friend is so important to me. Please don’t let-- please don’t let my stupid emotions ruin us.”

 

Miller swallows, licks his lips. He looks at Monty seriously; Monty must’ve shocked him into some state of semi-sobriety. “What about my emotions?” He asks lowly.

 

Monty blinks. “What?”

 

Miller squeezes Monty’s hands. “What if… what if my emotions have become as stupid as yours?” He asks. “What if, over the last six months, I’ve been slowly realizing that you’re my best friend, that I don’t know where I’d be without you, that… that you’re more than that? What if I think about you all the time? What if talking to you is the best part of my day? What if I fantasize about marching up to you and kissing the hell out of you, but I’m too afraid to take the chance, so instead I just get drunk as an excuse to touch you? What if I… what if I love you?”

 

“If all of those things are true,” Monty rasps, his heart beating rapidly, a lurch of adrenaline and fear and joy pumping through him, “then you should kiss me, because I love you, too.”

 

Miller grins, and it lights up his whole face. “C’m here,” he murmurs, one hand pushing the door open, the other pulling Monty in after him.

 

The door shuts, and they’re on each other, Miller’s lips warm and firm and sure on Monty’s. “Did I ever tell you,” he murmurs, throwing Monty’s suit jacket off his shoulders, “how fucking _hot_ you looked tonight?”

 

Monty had taken off his tie nearly right after the ceremony ended, and had only gotten more disheveled from there. Dancing, he had unbuttoned the top two buttons of his dress shirt, too warm, and half his shirt ended up un-tucked, but when the gang went outside and his skin had cooled, Monty was too chilly, so he threw his jacket back on, but his shirt was still askew and loose.

 

“Not as hot as you,” Monty breathes, moving to suck on Miller’s ear lobe. “When you took off your jacket and rolled up your sleeves? It’s like you know _exactly_ what I like.”

 

“Good to know for the future,” Miller grins, palming Monty through his slacks. Monty’s head eases back against the door with a groan. “You like _that_ , baby?” Miller says, pressing a sweet kiss to the side of Monty’s neck.

 

Monty growls, and in a flash, he’s slipped out from under Miller and pinned him to the door, grinning as he licks and bites at the dip in Miller’s throat. “A little too much,” he confesses.

 

“ _Fuck_ , Monty,” Miller breathes. “That might be the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

 

Monty looks at Miller through his fringe, and Miller feels his cock harden even further. “Then you’re going to really like what happens next,” he promises, his hands deftly undoing Miller’s belt buckle.

 

“I don’t--” Miller gasps. “I didn’t bring anything with me.”

 

Monty shrugs, unperturbed, long fingers still working. They can do _other_ things, as long as… “You clean?” He asks.

 

Miller nods. “Haven’t been with anyone since I last got tested,” he says. “Months ago. You?”

 

“Same. I got tested after my last break-up and haven’t been with anyone since.”

 

“Perfect,” Miller says, biting back a groan as Monty takes him out of his briefs. “ _Monty._ ”

 

“Let me make you feel good,” Monty murmurs, licking his way into Miller’s mouth as he wraps his hand around him and pumps.

 

“I want to make you feel good, too,” Miller says, but doesn’t stop Monty from dropping to his knees, cupping Miller’s balls in his hand as he darts his tongue out. “Oh, _fuck_.”

 

In response, Monty licks his length leisurely before taking him deep and hollowing his cheeks, sucking fiercely three times before withdrawing and starting the process all over again. “You’re such a tease,” Miller rasps.

 

“You’ll get used to it,” smirks Monty, before he descends again.

 

“I don’t think so,” Miller says, tangling his fingers in Monty’s soft hair, another fantasy come to life. “Oh, shit, baby, I’m gonna come if you keep that up.”

 

In response, Monty sucks harder, the warmth of his mouth spurring Miller on. “If you don’t like-- then you better--” Miller gasps, but Monty ignores him, so Miller lets go, spilling into Monty’s mouth moments after.

 

Monty stands, grinning, as Miller slouches against the door and eyes him dazedly. “Come on,” he says fondly, pulling him. “Let’s get you to bed.”

 

Miller allows himself to be led to the bed, right up to the edge, before he pushes Monty onto it. Monty blinks up at him, dazed, as, in flash, Miller pulls his shirt off and shucks his pants. Monty’s on his back, propped up on his elbows, and Miller sinks to the carpet, one hand undoing his pants, the other massaging him through them. Monty’s head tips back with a groan, Adam’s apple bobbing, and Miller knows he’ll _never_ get used to that sight.

 

“I told you I’m going to make you feel good, too,” Miller murmurs, head buried in between Monty’s legs as he bites teasingly into the inside of his thighs. He feels gratified when he can feel the muscles begin to quiver in anticipation and he can see Monty’s hands clawing at the bed covers.

 

Miller finally gets to Monty's cock, licking one long line from his sack to his head, sucking just the head into his mouth, his hand coming up to pump him. Monty’s hips rise off the bed to meet his mouth, and Miller wanted to go slow, wanted to tease him for a bit longer, but the feel of him in his mouth is so _good_ and right that it’s off to the races again, Miller licking and suckling and coaxing with abandon, Monty’s moans and cries helping him along. Miller can feel himself harden again, and he doesn’t know if he can come again, but he needs to feel Monty’s skin on his before the night is over, so he slides up, nearly tearing off Monty’s shirt so they can grind on each other, completely uninhibited, slick and smooth.

 

“Enough friction?” He murmurs into Monty’s ear.

 

“Yeah,” pants Monty. “Just-- just _right there,_  oh, god. Just like that, Nate.”

 

Miller licks his palm and skims it down Monty’s body, palming them both as their hips work together, sending Monty over the edge with a sharp inhale and a low, satisfied moan that somehow sets Miller off as well.

 

They manage to stumble to the bathroom to clean themselves up and brush their teeth before they contentedly lie together in the aftermath. Miller’s already thinking about what wonderfully dirty things he’ll do to wake Monty up in the morning when Monty reaches over and twines his hand with Miller’s. Without thinking, Miller brings their hands together to kiss Monty’s.

 

Miller looks over at Monty, who’s grinning back brightly at him. “I love you,” he murmurs.

 

Monty sighs, happy. “I love you, too,” he says, sleepily. He can feel himself drifting off, but he keeps his eyes on Miller’s face for as long as he can, and Miller, equally enamored, does the same.

 

Champagne is dangerous, Monty thinks before sleep claims him, but maybe it’s not so bad after all. Hell, at brunch the next day, maybe he’ll even have a mimosa.

 

After all, he has things to celebrate.

**Author's Note:**

> Idk where that sex scene came from, tbh. Miller basically demanded he get laid, and he's too hot to say no to.


End file.
